<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast. by frostfall</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22630456">my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostfall/pseuds/frostfall'>frostfall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Cap-Iron Man Bingo: 2020 (Round 1) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Identity Porn, Insecure Tony Stark, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Taxis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:40:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22630456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostfall/pseuds/frostfall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight, there’s a stranger in his backseat. That’s not unusual. </p><p>He’s also sad. That’s not unusual either. </p><p>What is unusual is that the stranger is silent.</p><p>(One night, a stranger enters Steve's taxi. Nothing is the same again.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Cap-Iron Man Bingo: 2020 (Round 1) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Captain America/Iron Man Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a fill for the prompt 'Learning To Be Loved' on my Cap-Iron Man Bingo card.</p><p>Title comes from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shxgK-NFeFc">'It's Over'</a> by Civil Twilight, which also served as inspiration for this story. Give it a listen!</p><p>TW: Depression, panic attacks, PTSD, suicidal thoughts</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tonight, there’s a stranger in his backseat. That’s not unusual.</p><p>The stranger’s sad. That’s not unusual either.</p><p>What is unusual is that the stranger is silent.</p><p>Steve has ferried a lot of sad people throughout the years. Nameless people sobbing their hearts out, wailing babies thrashing about in their mothers’ arms, crushed voices whimpering through the phone.</p><p>But the stranger’s sadness isn’t loud. It’s quiet and distant. He sits with his shoulders slumped in defeat and gaze faraway.</p><p>Sam has told him about this kind of sadness before. Steve has seen this kind of sadness in him, in Bucky, the veterans that frequent the group sessions that Sam forces Steve to attend every now and then.</p><p>It’s both terrifying and heartbreaking, watching another person feel that way. If he does feel that way.</p><p>“Where to?” Steve asks quietly.</p><p>The stranger startles, their eyes meeting through the mirror. There’s a whole sadness behind the stranger’s dry brown eyes and Steve’s heart aches.</p><p>He also looks oddly familiar. Steve wonders if he’d be able to put a name to his face if the neon lights are brighter.</p><p>“Just…” The stranger pauses before turning away. “Just around.”</p><p>His voice cracks at the end and Steve’s fingers itch to comfort.</p><p>It’s an unusual request. People like them would be eager to be in the confinements of their home. They wouldn’t want to be in the back of a taxi longer than they should.</p><p>“You have anywhere in mind?”</p><p>All he gets is a short shake of the head.</p><p>Steve doesn’t take them far, only ten blocks away from the stand. Throughout the journey, he steals glances through the rear-view mirror. The stranger’s gaze never wavers.</p><p>“Take me back,” the stranger croaks after the fourth circle.</p><p>Steve frowns. “Do you want me to take you home?”</p><p>He could’ve sworn something flash in his eyes.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>The ride back is as tense as before and when Steve pulls to a stop, a couple of hundreds are thrust towards his chest. </p><p>It’s a lot of money, money that would help a whole lot. But heavy tips like these always never sit well with him.</p><p>“Sir, I don’t think—”</p><p>But the stranger’s out of his car and out of his life. Steve doesn’t move even after the stranger disappears from sight.</p><p>It’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s fine to feel pity for a faceless and nameless man. But that’s who that stranger is – faceless and nameless. They’re never going to cross paths ever again. New York’s a big place and a man like Steve has places to be.</p><p>So like any sane man should, he tries to forget.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(He doesn’t.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next night, Steve stops by the taxi stand again. The stranger is there, with dishevelled hair, tired eyes, and rumpled clothes. Sadness flows out of him in waves.</p><p>“Around,” the stranger says and Steve does what he’s told.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Every night at eleven thirty-nine, Steve stops by the same taxi stand. And every night at eleven thirty-nine, the stranger is there alone. </p><p>He gets into Steve’s car and asks him to drive around aimlessly. Neither of them speaks until he asks Steve to turn back.</p><p>There are questions on the tip of Steve’s tongue as he watches the stranger wipe absent tears from his eyelids, questions he’s dying to have the answers to because he’s curiosity has always been his weakness.</p><p>But Steve’s a coward so he swallows it down and turns his steering wheel.</p><p><em>Who are you?</em> he asks in his head instead.<em> Why are you so sad?</em></p><p>The question pops in his head again hours later as he shades the sharp lines in the stranger’s brow. Empty eyes stare back at him and Steve isn’t any closer to an answer.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“It helps.”</p><p>Steve blinks as he comes to a stop. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“The ride,” the stranger repeats, waving his hand around. “It’s calming. Soothing. It shouldn’t be. But it is.”</p><p>Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. No one has ever told him that before.</p><p>So all he could do is muster his most friendly smile and says, “I’m glad.”</p><p>The stranger flashes him one of his own, crooked and clumsy.</p><p>The smile’s seared into his memory for the rest of the night.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Occasionally, Steve doesn’t go to work. It happens.</p><p>“You ditched me yesterday,” the stranger says as he settles in the back. “Why? Pay not enough?”</p><p>There’s a teasing tone to his voice, something Steve has never heard from him before. Steve also hears worry. He must’ve imagined that one because <em>why would a stranger worry?</em></p><p>“Of course not. I just had a…” He pauses and then amends. “I had something on.”</p><p>The stranger’s smile vanishes and he stares at Steve through the rear-view mirror, his eyes roving. Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat.</p><p>“That kind of day, huh?” he finally asks, quiet and hollow.</p><p>Steve nods. Of course. Of course, he gets it.</p><p>“Yeah. That kind of day.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I know someone,” Steve says one evening during a game of Mario Kart. “I think he’s depressed.”</p><p>Sam presses ‘pause’ on his video game controller. “Veteran?”</p><p>Steve shakes his head.</p><p>Sam purses his lips. “I’d offer to give him a therapy session but you know my ethics.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“I mean, I could still refer him. I have a couple of therapists I know.”</p><p>Therapy would definitely benefit anyone. But Steve doubts a stranger would take kindly to the suggestion. For all he knows, he’s already seeing someone. For all he knows, the stranger isn’t even depressed.</p><p>“He’s sad a lot,” Steve says.</p><p>Sam smiles sadly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What’s it like?”</p><p>“What’s what like?”</p><p>“To be loved.”</p><p>Steve would like to say that he knows. That love is like a warm hug his mother would give him whenever he gets hurt. That love is like the euphoria he feels whenever his friends get into one of their inane debates. That love is like the security he once shared with Sharon when their schedules allow their paths to cross.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I really don’t. But I’d like to think that it feels like coming home. Coming home after a shitty day at work and knowing that someone’s presence makes everything better.”  </p><p>The stranger fixes him with an odd look but doesn’t say another word.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When another couple of notes is pushed into Steve’s hand, he blurts out his name because he can’t help himself.</p><p>The stranger pauses, one foot out of the car. His eyelids flutter. “Nice to finally know your name, Steve. At least I can stop calling you ‘Beefcake’ in my head. I’m sure you know who I am.”</p><p>Steve’s cheeks warm. “I actually don’t.”</p><p>The stranger tilts his head. There’s a large neon sign spelling ‘TAXI’ attached to the top of the stand, bathing Tony in warm yellow, almost gold. Steve thinks that gold suits him.</p><p>“Tony.”</p><p>Tony. The stranger’s name is Tony. It suits him too.</p><p>“Well, it’s nice to finally know your name too, Tony.”</p><p>Tony’s lips twitch. There are oil stains streaked across his neck and cheeks.</p><p>Steve can’t look away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next night, Tony doesn’t show.</p><p>Steve waits for one, two, five, twenty minutes before he pulls away.</p><p>Maybe he’s running late. Maybe he decided to turn in early. Maybe he caught a different taxi. Maybe he’s out with a friend. Friends. Girlfriend, boyfriend, partner.</p><p>Maybe, maybe, maybe.</p><p>Since there’re a whole lot of maybes, Steve stops by again three customers later.</p><p>Three college kids stand in Tony’s place, swaying and warbling.</p><p>As Steve tunes out the drunk singing, he wonders if Tony’s okay. If he’s safe. If he hasn’t done something terrible and stupid, please god—</p><p>But at the end of the day, Tony’s still a stranger. Steve might have a face and a name now but nothing more than that, nothing that warrants a second thought.</p><p>In all of Steve’s years, never has he spared his customers a second thought the moment they step out of his car. So why’s Tony any different?</p><p>So again, he tries to forget because he’s a sane, sane man.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Steve has never been a sane, sane man.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Every night at eleven thirty-nine, Steve stops by the same taxi stand. And every night at eleven thirty-nine, Tony doesn’t show.</p><p>Sometimes, the stand is empty. Other times, there are people waiting and they get into his car before he could stop them.</p><p>Then again, it’s not like he can. Just because his brain won’t stop thinking of doe eyes and grease-stained skin, doesn’t mean he should risk his job for a man.</p><p>If Sam and Bucky notice the sudden influx of newspaper stacks on the coffee table or the absurd number of colour pencils in varying shades of brown littering his desk, they don’t bring it up. </p><p>They shouldn’t. After all, it’s no one’s business but Steve’s.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On the twelfth night, Tony reappears.</p><p>There’s a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. For some reason, Steve feels disappointed at the sight of them.</p><p>“It’s you.”</p><p>Steve swallows. The surprise in Tony’s tone unsettles him. “It’s me.”</p><p>Tony raises an eyebrow. “Well. Huh. What a coincidence.”</p><p>Steve’s tempted to lie to save themselves both the embarrassment. But he hates the idea of lying to those big brown eyes so he tells the truth instead.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Why what?”</p><p>Tony makes an impatient noise. “You know what I mean.”</p><p>Steve does. But the thing is, he can’t tell him he can’t get his big brown eyes out of his head so he says, “I wanted to,” instead.</p><p>The man’s brow furrows. “I guess if everyone pays you like I do, you wouldn’t—”</p><p>“I’m not here for the money.”</p><p>The man frowns. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”</p><p>Steve starts at that. “No! Of course not! I just… I—”</p><p>A soft chuckle escapes Tony’s lips. It’s another first and fuck, Steve wishes he could bottle his laugh up. “Okay then.”</p><p>This time, Steve takes them all the way to the edge of Lower Manhattan and back again. He’s beginning his second round when Tony speaks.</p><p>“Today fucking sucked.”</p><p>“Technically, it’s Tuesday now.”</p><p>Tony scowls. “You always a shit to everyone, Steve?”</p><p>Steve smirks. “Maybe. Tell me about it.”</p><p>“Nah. Wouldn’t want to bore you.”</p><p>“Something tells me you won’t.”</p><p>“I would.”</p><p>“Tell me anyway?”</p><p>Tony’s lips curl upwards, an odd look on his face. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a persistent bastard?”</p><p>Steve chuckles. “Almost every day.”</p><p>Tony laughs, bright and clear and fuck, Steve wouldn’t mind hearing it again.</p><p>So he listens to Tony’s tale about annoying board members and another about nagging personal assistants and another and another and another and by the time Tony decides they should turn back, it’s almost six in the morning, the gas tank almost empty, and Steve hasn’t picked up any other customer because he’s too busy laughing and listening to Tony laugh.</p><p>“Told you you wouldn’t bore me,” Steve says as he pulls to a stop.</p><p>Tony smiles, the same odd look returning. </p><p>“Yeah,” he says, sounding faraway. “I guess I didn’t.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>If Steve used to look forward to his midnight drives with Tony, his anticipation’s on a different level now they’re now on speaking terms.</p><p>They spend their rides filing the car with talk and at times, music (which Tony spends most of the time playfully ridiculing Steve’s taste in music, which is just fine, and Tony has no appreciation for a quiet folk tune, the heathen).</p><p>Steve learns a lot about Tony – that he was born in Manhattan but moved to the West Coast when he was barely a year old. That he’s an engineer for a major company and enjoys inventing and every iteration of Star Trek. That his body possibly runs on caffeine and ideas and a lack of sleep which Steve disapproves wholeheartedly. That he has a handful of friends who he doesn’t meet as often as he likes but he loves them with all his heart.</p><p>In turn, Steve tells Tony that he’s born and bred in Brooklyn. That he’s an army veteran and currently a freelancing artist who drives a taxi for extra cash and enjoys any form of art and Lord of the Rings. That his fingers are always aching to detail everything he sees on paper which Tony finds fascinating. That he also has a handful of friends who he sees pretty often and he loves them with all his heart.</p><p>Tonight, Tony waits for him with coffee in each hand, sweet and frothy for Steve, black as night for Tony. They trade stories from their college years. The rising sun is peeking behind the clouds by the time Steve turns around.</p><p>As Tony presses several crumpled notes into Steve’s palm (he’s learnt to stop declining because Tony’s a persistent bastard), Steve can’t help but wish Tony could stay an hour longer. Or at least, a minute more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For not telling me to shut up.”</p><p>Steve’s heart drops. “Why would I do that?”</p><p>The look he gets is devastating.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tony doesn’t show up some nights.</p><p>“Business trip overseas,” he’d tell Steve and would launch into another story involving closed-minded old men and stuffy boardrooms. Occasionally, Steve would get a sad smile and a, “Wasn’t in the mood to get out of bed.” That would be the end of it.</p><p>Steve gets it. He’d be hypocritical to think otherwise.</p><p>Which is probably why he wants to reach. Touch. Comfort. Save.</p><p>But Sam has told him many, many times already – you can’t save people from their sadness.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Who is it?”</p><p>“Who is what?”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes as he takes a large bite of his slice of pizza. “The one that’s making you light up like a fucking Christmas tree. So spill, Rogers.”</p><p>“You know I don’t kiss and tell.” Steve picks up his glass of lemonade. “Wanna tell me about you and Nat instead?”</p><p>“What makes you think <em>I</em> kiss and tell?” Bucky counters but gushes like the softie he is anyway.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, Tony is quiet. He’d get inside without a word. Wave a hand. Stare out the window throughout the whole journey. Wait for Steve to turn around himself. Pay and leave.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Steve asks when curiosity gets the better of him and prays he isn’t overstepping.</p><p>Tony doesn’t look away from the window, his elbow propped against the window pane. Outside, the raindrops trickle down the glass, melding and parting.</p><p>“Why’d you leave?” Tony asks instead.</p><p>“Leave what?”</p><p>“The army. Why’d you leave?”</p><p>Steve wants to point out, to tell him to not change the subject. But it’s been months since he met Tony. He wouldn’t take kindly to the counter.</p><p>“It wasn’t right. Didn’t sit right by me. The things I’ve seen. The things people do in the name of our country. The things the media said. Says. All the lies and… It just wasn’t right.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tony answers, sounding distracted. “I know what you mean.”</p><p>They settle into another bout of silence.</p><p>“Am I a monster?”</p><p>Steve jerks, startled. “Why would you say that?”</p><p>Tony’s eyes narrow, confused and suspicious. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”</p><p>Steve shakes his head, waiting for Tony to tell him because, <em>Why would Tony call himself that? He’s a wonderful and amazing guy. He has a beautiful mind and a beautiful heart and what I’d give to see him smile and laugh, and why would he think he’s a monster?</em></p><p>Instead, Tony smiles at him sadly. There’s a tinge of acceptance behind it. Steve doesn’t know what to make of it.</p><p>“Take a picture. Upload it to Google Images. Then you’ll know who I am.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the end, Steve doesn’t need to use Google Images.</p><p>“Is that Tony Stark?” Sam asks, peering over Steve’s shoulder.</p><p>It’s a name Steve isn’t familiar with but frequently heard of in passing – in newspapers and gossips sites and whispers exchanged in coffee shops.</p><p>Tony Stark. The elusive CEO of Stark Industries. Genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist. The man with the winning smile and charming arrogance.</p><p>It’s a far cry from the Tony he knows. The Tony he knows is an ordinary engineer. Intelligent, mysterious, hilarious, compassionate. The man who guards his smiles and laughter close to his chest and loathes himself with every fibre in his being.</p><p>But then he glances up at the television in front of him. The newscasters have their heads bent together, discussing the recent arrest of Obadiah Stane who has embezzled and sold weapons to terrorists behind Tony Stark’s back. Next to their heads is a photograph of Tony Stark with his winning smile and charming arrogance.</p><p>Tony the futurist who is changing the world and eyes twinkling in mischief and promises.</p><p>Tony the stranger who spins intricate tales and has a smile like a blazing sun.</p><p>“Yeah,” Steve says and his tongue tastes like sand, “guess it is.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On Sunday morning, he drags himself out of bed, lets Sam shove pancakes down his throat, and pulls out his laptop.</p><p>Most of the things he reads are about the recent developments in Stark Industries. Most people laud the move but are sceptical of Tony’s sincerity. Some articles discuss his recent retreat from the spotlight. Steve tries to avoid the gossipmongers because they’re soulless assholes. </p><p><em>Am I a monster?</em> Tony once asked him, resignation behind his eyes.</p><p>Maybe Steve could confidently agree to that assessment once upon a time, a time when he was much too young and furious at a world that wronged his best friend, wronged the innocents, and the weak.</p><p>(Wronged him.)</p><p>But after listening to Tony mourn and laugh and speak and meet his big brown eyes in the mirror and after reading up on everything Tony has done in the past few months—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not a monster.”</p><p>Tony blinks, languid and owlish, one foot in the car, one out.</p><p>“You actually Googled Imaged me.”</p><p>“Not really. My roommate, uh… He saw a drawing of you. Recognized you.”</p><p>“You… You draw me.”</p><p>Steve nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Tony doesn’t ask.</p><p>For a long moment, neither of them speak. Steve takes him past apartments and cafes and cars and streetlamps and itches to say more. Steve takes him past Broadway and Baxter and the Bowery and Columbus Avenue and wants to tell Tony, tell him—</p><p>“I hope you didn’t watch any of my sex tapes.”</p><p>As he watches Tony through the rear-view mirror, Steve feels more foolish. That smile’s the exact smile he’d flash the cameras, all white and flash.</p><p>(He’d like to think that he coaxed different kinds of smiles out of Tony, broad and real and not like the ones in photographs.)</p><p>“No. I, uh... I just read some articles.”</p><p>“And you still think I’m not a monster?”</p><p>Steve frowns. “You didn’t sell those weapons.”</p><p>“Maybe I didn’t. But if I had realized sooner instead of drinking and fucking and—”</p><p>“You’re making things right now. You shut down the weapons sector and Stane’s going to be put away for a very long time. And it’s all because of you.”</p><p>“Doesn’t change what happened before.”</p><p>Steve inhales deeply. He’s right. No amount of repenting would bring back all those people back from the dead. No amount of reforming would restore Bucky’s arm. No amount of change would take the battles out of Steve’s head.</p><p>“That doesn’t mean what you’re doing now is meaningless. You’re doing better. You’re making sure no one else gets hurt ever again. You’re making a change.”</p><p>“I find that hard to believe.” Tony turns away. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“You have nothing to be sorry about.”</p><p>“Stop that!” Tony yells, snapping his head forward, fire in his eyes. “Stop lying to me. Just tell me I fucked up. Tell me I deserve nothing because I— I—”</p><p>“Can I hug you?”</p><p>Tony freezes. Steve feels his body turn cold.</p><p>“I mean, if you— You know— Uh—”</p><p>“Sure,” Tony says. His eyes widen as if he’s surprised at what he just said. “I mean, you don’t have to—”</p><p>“I want to,” Steve says simply and Tony just stares at him for a long time, his lips parted.</p><p>“Okay, he says after a long minute. He squeezes his eyelids shut, a teardrop escaping. “Okay.”</p><p>Steve doesn’t waste any time unbuckling his safety belt, slipping into the backseat, and tentatively gathering Tony’s quaking body into his arms. He’s both warm and cold, solid and air, and Steve wants to hold him until he never knows hurt ever again.</p><p>“He killed them,” Tony says, his voice barely a whisper.</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Obie— Obadiah Stane. He was friends with my dad. Good friends. And my parents died because of him. He had them killed. Assassinated. Whatever the fuck you call it. I found out last night.”</p><p>Steve racks his brain for something comforting to say. He turns up empty.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be. Not your fault. My old man and I never got along. He wasn’t a good man. But my mum…” Tony’s voice breaks off and he turns away, wiping at his eyes. “Sometimes… Sometimes, I wish I was there with them that night. Not because I could’ve done something to help. Fuck knows if I could’ve. I just—” </p><p>Sam and Bucky have always told him Steve has a problem. That he always takes up more than he should. That he tries to make changes that are out of his control. That he tries to help beyond his capacity.</p><p>‘Chronic Hero Syndrome’, they call it.</p><p>Steve understands why they’d think that way. But how could he sit and watch someone as amazing as Tony Stark fall apart? How could he let Tony tear himself apart when Steve has the means to give everything Tony deserves?</p><p>Steve pulls him close. The blood in his veins sing. “I wish I could take the sadness out of you.”</p><p>Tony lets out a watery laugh. “That’d be too much work.”</p><p>“Not to me, it isn’t.”</p><p>“You know you can’t.”</p><p><em>You, of all people, know you can’t</em>, is the hidden implication.</p><p>“I know,” Steve says, tightening his grip. “Doesn’t stop me from wanting too though.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This time, Steve drops him off at the tower.</p><p>“No,” he says when Tony fishes out his wallet. “Keep it.”</p><p>“But—"</p><p>“I told you before. I’m not doing this for the money.”</p><p>Tony snorts and Steve feels himself start because how could he think that, after all this time—</p><p>“Is it so hard to believe I care about you?”</p><p>“Yes,” Tony says and the fire in Steve’s stomach is doused. “I mean, I’ve hurt you.”</p><p>Steve freezes.</p><p>“I hurt you. My weapons— The war— Your pain—”</p><p>“You weren’t there. You didn’t try to kill me. You didn’t champion a meaningless war.”</p><p>“I made guns. I made guns and bombs and nukes. I might as well have been there.”</p><p>“But you weren’t. You didn’t try to kill me. You didn’t. Okay?”</p><p>“Okay,” Tony says. Steve knows he doesn’t believe him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At some point, Tony asks to see Steve’s drawings because of course, he does. Steve eventually caves in because how could he resist Tony Stark?</p><p>He watches the awe in Tony’s eyes as he flips through the pages, the soft smile that graces his lips as he traces ink and paper, the arching eyebrows when he comes to the sketches with Tony’s eyes and Tony’s lips and Tony’s—</p><p>“It’s beautiful,” Tony breathes out.</p><p><em>You’re beautiful</em>, Steve thinks.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Every time Tony gets into the car, Steve feels warm and euphoric and secure all at once. Every time Tony gets into the car, Steve feels like he’s finally home and oh.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You look cheery today,” Dr Erskine says, his eyes twinkling.</p><p>Steve settles down opposite his therapist, feeling lighter than he ever felt in forever. “I think I’m in love.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tony finds him in the middle of an attack.</p><p>“I know you miss me but—”</p><p>“Tony,” Steve croaks out because he can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can’t—</p><p>There’s a short pause and then loud rustling, footsteps, and then a door being thrust open. “Steve? Fuck, okay. Are you—”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Okay. What do you—”</p><p>“Help. Just— Fuck— Help—”</p><p>“Okay. Can I hold your hand?”</p><p>Steve nods, his phone shaking in his grip, his other hand clawing at the seat, his jeans, his shirt, his—</p><p>“Okay. I need you to breathe. Breathe with me. When you hear me inhale, inhale with me. Is that okay?”</p><p>Steve nods.</p><p>“Okay. Now, deep breath in.”</p><p>There’s a sharp intake of breath. Steve follows but he’s dying and there’s—</p><p>“And out.”</p><p>And Steve does as he’s told but there’s something wet in his hands and—</p><p>They do this until Steve’s breathing slows and his body stops convulsing and all he feels is the thumb around his pulse, stroking and soothing.</p><p>“Good. You’re doing really good, Steve. I’m proud of you. You’re amazing and—”</p><p>“Thank you,” Steve murmurs.</p><p>“It’s no biggie,” Tony answers, his voice just as quiet and soothing as before. “Feel better?”</p><p>Steve nods.</p><p>“Okay. Come on. I’ll take you home.”</p><p>Steve gnaws at the bottom of his lip, glancing out the window. It’s dark. </p><p>“No. It’s fine. I gotta— I have work and my boss will kill me if he finds out you—”</p><p>“You still have tomorrow. I’ll call him up. Just let me take you home.”</p><p>Steve swallows. His head tells him to fight back but his heart feels tired, oh so tired. </p><p>As he watches Tony pull away, he couldn’t help but think that he wouldn’t mind riding shotgun and watching Tony drive for the rest of his life.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sam’s jaw drops as he opens the door.</p><p>Natasha grins and pecks Tony on the cheek.</p><p>Bucky stares at Steve. “You’re dating Tony Stark?” He spins around. “And you’re friends with Tony Stark?”</p><p>Steve guffaws, feeling exhausted but better.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This is how it feels like to love – like giving someone a home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Howard used to tell me I was nothing,” Tony says behind a steaming cup of coffee. “That I’d never amount to anything. He’s not wrong.”</p><p>“Sometimes when I close my eyes,” Steve confesses when the light turns green, “it feels like I’m back there drowning all over again.”</p><p>“There’s a part of me that always wondered if Obie— <em>Stane</em> ever cared about me,” Tony admits as they speed past billboard signs. “He was the uncle I never had.”</p><p>“I wish I could stop myself from giving away too much of me,” Steve declares when they wind up in a jam. “It just gets me into a whole lot of pain.”</p><p>“I’m waiting for everyone to leave me one day,” Tony whispers into the night. “They should’ve left me when I was in rehab. But they didn’t. I don’t know why. But it’ll happen. Eventually.”</p><p><em>I’m in love with you</em>, Steve says in his head as Tony hums along to AC/DC, his eyes shining under the neon red lights. <em>I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be. It’s not—”</p><p>“My fault. I know, I know. When are you gonna stop telling me that?”</p><p>“Until you believe me.”</p><p>Tony’s lips quirk to the side. “You’ll probably have to wait a lifetime for that to happen.”</p><p>That’s okay. Steve will wait until death comes for them both if he has to. Maybe even after that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t be surprising that it happens during one of their rides.</p><p>They’re at a traffic light and bickering over Steve’s choice of music. Steve tells him that soft folk music is the perfect soundtrack to night drives. Tony counters with something called ‘synthwave’ which doesn’t sound like a real music genre.</p><p>Tonight, there’s hardly anyone on the road. Outside, snow is falling, blanketing the streets in white. There’s froth stuck to Tony’s moustache and Steve can’t tear his gaze away.</p><p>“What? Something on my face?” Tony asks, a grin playing on his lips and Steve’s heart yearns.</p><p>So with a tentative hand cupping Tony’s cheek (and oh fuck, he’s warm, so fucking warm and not blistering cold like the winter raging outside), Steve brushes his lips against his.</p><p>For a long time, they kiss like that, with the warm air brushing against their cheeks and The Paper Kites playing softly in the background.</p><p>It’s quiet and soft and everything Steve has dreamt of.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Steve calls in sick and takes Tony home.</p><p>It’s a difficult ride to the tower. They tumble out of the car in a tangle of limbs and breaths as they fumble their way into the elevator, the penthouse, the bedroom.</p><p>They kiss and kiss and they fall into bed and kiss some more. They kiss and kiss and Tony’s pulling Steve’s shirt over his head and kiss and his fingers touch but shake and—</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>Tony stills under him.</p><p>“You don’t want me,” he says like he expected it and he’s pulling away, mind and body and Steve can’t let him go. He can’t.</p><p>“I do. I really do. I just want to take things slow with you.”</p><p>Tony blinks. “Slow?”</p><p>“I want to take you out to dinner.” He brushes his lips against Tony’s. It’s chaste but the tingle he feels isn’t. “I want to pick you up from your place and take you to dinner and talk about everything and then drive you home and kiss you goodnight. And then I’ll go home and call you up and tell you much I missed you and talk to you about everything again. And then I’ll do it all over again and again and again.”</p><p>“And sex?”</p><p>“If you want.”</p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>Tony frowns. “You do know that I can’t pay you to drive me around anymore. If we do this.”</p><p>“I can still do that free-of-charge,” Steve says. “And during my off-hours. Besides, there are always other people.”</p><p>Neither of them breathes a word out. Steve takes the opportunity to drink Tony in, to memorize the freckles dotting Tony’s nose, the fading cut marring his bearded jaw, the lines on his forehead.</p><p>“No one has ever asked me that before,” Tony says quietly. “No one has ever wanted me for anything else but sex.”</p><p>It takes every part of Steve’s being to not storm out and find every single person who doubted and wronged him, who made him this way in the first place.</p><p>“They’re idiots.”</p><p>Tony laughs but it’s hollow. “I don’t blame them. I’m a walking disaster.”</p><p>“No, you’re not.”</p><p>He sighs. “I come with a lot of baggage, Steve. It’s not—”</p><p>“Don’t we all?” Tony’s lips part but Steve cuts him off, cupping his cheek. Tony trembles under his touch. “I’m not going to start comparing our issues. They shouldn’t be comparable. No one’s trauma should.”</p><p>“Maybe not,” Tony relents. “But still. You should be with someone who isn’t… Isn’t…”</p><p>“I don’t want anyone else. I want <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Tony looks at him as if Steve holds the world in his hands. Maybe he does.</p><p>“You mean it?”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>Tony doesn’t answer him. But it’s okay. They have tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When morning comes, Steve makes them pancakes and coffee. Tony’s gaze never leaves him, like he can’t believe this is happening, like he can’t believe that someone has stayed the night.</p><p>Steve both loves and hates it.</p><p>“Are you free tonight?” he asks as he drowns his stack of pancakes with maple syrup.</p><p>Tony cocks an eyebrow, watching the syrup trickle onto the plate. “Eager to take me out, are we?”</p><p>Steve smiles. “Dying to. But only if you want to.”</p><p>Tony beams around his mug. That answers the question.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Since it’s Steve’s idea in the first place, he takes him to a diner in Brooklyn with the best apple pie and vanilla milkshakes. They talk about Tony’s latest inventions and Steve’s recent commissions. Then they talk about shitty fathers and strong mothers and found families.</p><p>And when it’s time to go, they argue about who should pay the bill. They end up splitting it because they’re both stubborn assholes.</p><p>Steve drives Tony home and walks him to the elevator. He kisses him goodnight. A perfect parting for a perfect night.</p><p>He’s about to leave when fingers curl around his wrist.</p><p>“Stay with me?” Tony asks and Steve grins at how hopeful he looks.</p><p>“Okay,” he murmurs and lets Tony drag him inside.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They do it again when their schedules align. And again and again and again.</p><p>They take turns showing their worlds to one another. Tony takes him down to the workshop where he builds and creates and shows off his robots and AIs. Steve shares with him his paintings and sketches and blows Tony’s mind.</p><p>And when that’s not enough, they take walks in the park and frequent restaurants and cafes and ride Ferris wheels and fall asleep on couches with a movie playing in the background. </p><p>And when the mood strikes, they take things to the bedroom, their hands feeling and their mouths swallowing every part of their souls.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hey Steve?”</p><p>He looks up from his sketchbook.</p><p>Tony smirks, striking a pose. He’s dressed in a ratty tank top and skinny jeans, a screwdriver in one hand. He might as well be draped over his bed, wet and ready.</p><p>“I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.”</p><p>Steve rolls his eyes and launches a paper ball at his head.</p><p>Dum-E rushes after it like it’s candy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Some days aren’t all sunshine and rainbows. They try to make the best of it, be there for one another no matter the resistance, the silence, the pain.</p><p>As Tony drags Steve into the living room, coffee table filled with bowls of popcorn and dog videos playing on the television screen, Steve knows things will be alright.</p><p>(He hopes Tony feels the same way.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not used to this,” Tony admits one night, sated and naked and tangled up. His thumb lazily brushes over one of Steve’s nipples. Steve fails to suppress the shivers coursing down his spine.</p><p>“Used to what?”</p><p>“Being loved.”</p><p>Steve stills.</p><p>“I mean, I have friends and I know they love me but…” Tony trails away, his gaze distant. “They’re not <em>in</em> love with me.”</p><p>“Am I that obvious?”</p><p>Tony nods. “That’s the only reason I can come up with. Why you’re still here. But why do you… Why?”</p><p>“You’re a good man. You give away billions to people who need it. You never judge or mock people for who they are. You’re always trying to better yourself, grow from your mistakes. You own them and—”</p><p>“My heart’s taken a lot, Steve,” Tony says softly, his lip quivering. “Don’t… Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”</p><p>Steve smiles. He lifts himself up and drapes himself over Tony.</p><p>“I love you,” Steve says, pecking the tip of his nose.</p><p>“I love you,” Steve says, ghosting the shell of his ear.</p><p>“I love you,” Steve says, breathing against his neck.</p><p>“I love you,” Steve says, brushing against his temple.</p><p>“I love you,” Steve says against his lips. “Let me in. Let me love you.”</p><p>He presses forward and tastes salt.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After that, things change.</p><p>Tony’s laughter becomes more boisterous and his gestures more animated and his smile wider and sincere. There’s still lingering sadness behind Tony’s eyes but Steve very well knows that depression won’t disappear in an instant after a mere heart-to-heart.</p><p>But having those brown eyes shining in genuine joy when Steve dotes on him makes his heart swell.</p><p>It’s slow and gradual and maybe there’ll always be a part of Tony that feels that way. It’s still progress.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What’s it like,” Bucky asks once, “being in love with this dumbass?”</p><p>Tony smiles, coffee meeting azure. “Like coming home.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months. Months turn to years. Steve switches car keys for paintbrushes and galleries. Tony goes on to make the world better. They get a dog and cat and watch them love and be loved.</p><p>The sadness doesn’t vanish. Not for Tony and not for Steve. And maybe it never will.</p><p>But as Steve lies in bed with Tony in his arms, naked and sated with matching silver around their fingers, he’s content and happier than he’s been in a long time. And judging by Tony’s breathing, Steve hopes he feels the same way.</p><p>And maybe that’s what matters.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song Steve and Tony kiss to in the car is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qTvX2Rp3u4">'Nothing More Than That'</a> by The Paper Kites, which also inspired this story.</p><p>You can reblog this on Tumblr <a href="https://kapteniron-archive.tumblr.com/post/190733471336/my-heart-is-driftwood-floating-down-your-coast">here</a>.</p><p>Feel free to talk to me on <a href="https://nethandrake.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/kapteniron">Twitter!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>